


Hot Shot

by PenelopePenniworth



Series: Prompted [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 1950s, 2017A, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Boys In Love, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Day 1, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, GW2017A, Gallavich Week, Gallavich Week 2017, Gangs, Gay, Greasers, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Love, M/M, Original Character(s), Prompt Fic, Rival Relationship, Rivalry, Shameless, Top Ian Gallagher, nondescriptive playtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopePenniworth/pseuds/PenelopePenniworth
Summary: Ian and Mickey as greasers, "on the hook" with each other. Simple as that.(Gallavich Week prompt 2017A - AU General)





	Hot Shot

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not actively participating in Gallavich Week since I'm way behind (and I've never done it before), so I'm just using the prompts to write. :d There are some '50s lingo used (it was so weird to use as I'm not used to it; I hope I used them correctly ^^' ), so I will provide definitions at the bottom. They're used in context, so it should make sense, but at least you've got definitions to help.
> 
> Also, sorry not sorry, I may blueball y'all at the end. LOL

Ian Gallagher was never a square, never one to follow rules; he was always a free spirit. It could have been because of the way he was raised. Actually, it was definitely the way he was raised. 

His father, Frank, was as free-spirited as one could get—always trying to "stick it to the man", never wanting to conform to the laws that were set; anything he said and everything thing he did was to unravel societal ways at the seams. It was the reason why he always wound up in the can more times than Ian could count in his 16 years of living.

His mother, Monica, was just the same, except she was more discreet with the fuzz unless she wanted to get caught. Ian never understood her; she was always one way one day, looking for the next big thrill at home or on the streets, and then she would switch the next, wanting nothing but to stay in bed or jump off the bridge in Downtown. Most women were calm, sweet, obedient, and stayed at home, tending to the house and children. She did none of that; a perfect match for Frank. She was drugged up more than half the time that she was in her better mood, so she was barely ever "there". He never understood and she was always out with Frank, so he didn't interact with her as much. And then, she never came home again.

So, with the type of life he lived, he wasn't sure how he ended up a part of the Brass Rats, full of other "free-spirits" who still followed a code—their own code and Ian was okay with it. It kept him out of his dysfunctional home now run by his eldest sister, Fiona, and out from under her watchful eye. Don't get him wrong, Fiona did her best raising five kids on her own, but the abrupt switch from no one giving a fuck to being told what to do and how to act was too much of a change he never got used to. The Brass Rats were such a cohesive unit that they quickly started feeling like the family Ian never had. They fucked shit up, they crashed all the raddest bashes, they made a name for themselves, being one of the well-known gangs of Southside Chicago, but they had each other's backs.

Of course, when there is one well-known gang, there has to be a few others who refused to stand down. The Brass Rats' biggest rival was the Cobalt Serpents. Ian quickly learned there was a long-standing history between these two that even surpassed the current members for reasons he didn't understand either and he as sure neither did they, but they were all sure to do their best keeping up that fire alive year after year.

But, like was said, Ian wasn't one to follow rules. 

Because he had no direct qualms against the Serpents, he approached the one member that caught his eye for months prior at one of the bashes that both they and the Brass Rats had crashed. Mickey goddamn Milkovich, the only thing that occupied his mind and his body day and night. Ian couldn’t say he really had a type, but out of all the guys he'd been with—all of which he could count on one hand as being gay in the '50s was not something that most people, if anyone, wanted to announce, ever—Mickey definitely stood out from them all. He wasn't sure if it was the ever permanent scowl on his face, the fact that when he genuinely smiled he looked ten years younger than his 19 year old self, which also betrayed the shit-talking attitude he always carried, or the letters of “Fuck U Up” he had permanently spelled out over each knuckle that would frighten most who came near him, but he was snowed.

At this point, Ian couldn't tell you whose house it was, whose party it was, or even who all was there anymore. He still thinks it was one of the Scarlet Angels' sorority houses, but couldn't tell you with certainty. All he could remember was the smolder in Mickey’s dark blue eyes when they were only centimeters from each other, the mixed taste of the due backs they had finished by the end of the night and beer on his lips, the contrast between the warmth of Mickey’s bare skin and the coolness of the bathroom door against Ian’s own as they fought for the dominance neither of them wanted to give up. When they finally got to the pinnacle of the moment, Ian was floored by how much Mickey was putty in his hands. He couldn’t forget the lascivious drawl of Mickey’s words, curses and all, when Ian hit the right angles, nibbled on the right spots, touched him in all the right ways. 

At that moment, he knew it was something he needed as much as his lungs needed air and it began this series of secrecy and passion. 

Fuck rivalries.

Unfortunately, you can fuck them all you want, but as all they go, someone needed to have something over the other’s head and their hot-rod drag races were the most important ways to go about it. The Brass Rats, Cobalt Serpents, Fly Boys, and Road Runners would come together to show off their best hopped-up cars. Mickey would spend days upon days sprucing up his rod and, most days, Ian would be right there being of no help, just watching him do what he did best (one of many talents Ian had the pleasure of experiencing, actually). There was something…sensuous about Mickey bending over the hood of his car in a plain white t-shirt with his already-short sleeves rolled up to the peak of his shoulders, marked up with oil, dirt, and grime. Needless to say, Ian was the reason why working on the car took longer than it was supposed to. Oops.

So, here he was, standing in the mixed crowd of spectators, leaning against the metal railing because he made sure to get front-row seat for this. He had seen these races many times already, but this time, he had more of a reason to watch. The voices behind him were trash-talking the other groups, making stupid bets of who would win, who would get their shit stacked up first, and Ian ignored them, focusing on the scene before him—particularly the apple of his eye who was sitting in his rag top with the top down, revving its engine. He was looking down at something in his lap, on the dashboard, or by the gear shift—Ian wasn’t really sure— but his mouth moved, evidently speaking to the fellow Serpent who was helping him prepare for the race. Ian's heart skipped a beat and he couldn't help his own smile when saw that all familiar smirk on his lips that soon turned into a laugh. Mickey was in a good mood today.

_"You ready for the race today?" Ian asked, staring into Mickey's eyes from where he lay. The Jelly Roll that Mickey's hair was usually styled in was no more than a sad nest on his head, which Ian would never apologize for during times like these and it was the same for Ian's duck butt. He laid on top of Mickey's body, chin rested on his hands, which were laying just above Mickey's sternum, rising and falling with every breath the older male took. Ian felt a sense of security as Mickey's arms were wrapped around his torso and their legs tangled with each others._

_Mornings had never been Ian's cup of tea, but they were now his favorite time of day—next to their late nightly escapades, of course. They had recently fallen into this routine when it was once hit-it-and-quit-it and they wouldn’t see each other for the rest of the day unless the Serpents wanted to pick a fight with the Rats or vice versa._

_"You know it," Mickey replied with a lazy grin, the early morning 'exercise' taking a slight toll on his energy. "The others are gonna eat my dust, especially the Brass Rat fuckers. No offense."_

_Despite the words, Ian could tell Mickey was nowhere near apologetic and he shook his head with a chuckle. "None taken. Just make sure you don't get creamed."_

_It was Mickey’s turn to chuckle. "Ain't a thing, man. I got this… May even win the race for you."_

_Ian's brow raised in intrigue and shock, knowing Mickey didn't normally say things like that because, one, this was supposed to be casual ("supposed to be") and, two, neither of them really did ‘relationships’. Whatever this was that they were in…they never really questioned it. It just was. But that sentiment prompted the questions._

_"For me?" He asked as Mickey unwrapped himself from the redhead, flipping their position so that he was on all fours over Ian._

_"Maybe." He disappeared beneath the bed sheets with a mischievous grin._

When Ian ceased his trip down memory lane, he noticed Mickey looking in his direction as one of the Scarlet Angels, Betty, walked out to the middle of the race track next to Little John, the host of this race, who stood in front of the lined up hot-rods. 

“Alright, rodders! Fire ‘em up!” He called out as Betty raised up a handkerchief of hers. 

Soon, the drivers began revving their engines, exhaust circling the air behind them. Ian was a little too far to see if Mickey was indeed looking at him, but he just assumed he was. Ian gave him a thumbs up with a nod and smile package and Mickey reciprocated with the same, which only made his own smile grow. Right after, he noticed Tommy from his own group put up a thumbs up with a stupid grin, thinking the initial one was for him. Ian's smile faltered for a bit as he willed himself to keep it up.

“Ready!” Little John continued, once he had given the drivers enough time. “Set!…Punch it!” 

The Scarlet Angel let her handkerchief drop and every car stalled for a second, wheels turning fiercely, as the drivers quickly shifted gears. Within seconds, the cars sped off into the bright horizon until they were barely visible, turning a sharp corner, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Ian held his breath, watching Mickey’s car weave back and forth between the cars next to him. He stayed within the top three, Tommy’s car being first. 

The rest of the Brass Rats behind him were whooping, urging Tommy to stay on top—all but Ian, who stayed as quiet as he had been since they had first arrived, his tongue anxiously turning the toothpick between his lips. He had never cared who won and who didn't despite the loyalty he was supposed to have to the Brass Rats. Loyalty was a very loose concept for Ian, but he’d never once gone against his group until this very moment. 

When Mickey said he'd win the race with the thought of Ian behind it, it got him cranked; he wanted nothing but that. It was almost like a confession of whatever he felt for Ian and whatever that was, Ian would accept it wholeheartedly. His loyalty undoubtedly stood with the Cobalt Serpent and that was something that wouldn't falter regardless of Brass Rats/Cobalt Serpent historical disputes. He was on the hook for the person of now and it had nothing to do the gang history of the past. 

These races were won solely for the bragging rights of either one of the gangs. The fact Mickey would drop that for Ian meant a lot to him, so when Mickey accelerated to first place and the whooping and hollering behind him turned into groans and objections a grin spread around his toothpick. 

The race lasted no more than ten minutes as the racers were on the last lap—Mickey first, Tommy second, and Dale from the Road Runners third. Each group ran to swarm their driver and Ian strolled behind his in no hurry. His feet walked towards Tommy, but his eyes stayed on Mickey, wanting nothing but to be the one to congratulating him—patting his back, slapping his hand, but more so doing more intimate things than what everyone else would.

Ian reached his group when he made eye contact with Mickey and the look on his face said everything the redhead needed.

He’d wait his turn.

* * *

Ian's watch finally reached midnight when he approached Mickey's pad. He moved the trash can right under Mickey's window, as he usually did almost every night, and climbed onto it, rapping lightly on the window in the rhythmic three and two knocks he made to be his calling card. Like routine, the window struggled to be propped up, split and uneven wood rattling against the frame, until it was fully open, allowing Ian to climb through. It was never the quietest entrance, but no one in the house ever cared since there is always a constant sneaking in and out anyway—Terry never cared to do or say anything about it.

As soon as Ian got his bearings once inside the room, he wasted no time in pulling Mickey by his t-shirt and connecting their lips in a deep kiss that he’d been harboring for the past eight hours. 

“Way ta' go, hot stuff,” Ian grinned as dimmed greens gazed into blues.

“Told ya’ I’d win it.” There was that toothy grin.

“Was worried for a second there.”

“Stakes were high; couldn’t go back on my word.” 

The smirk Mickey was sporting and the moonlit sparkle in his eyes that danced caused Ian to bite his own lips. He wasn’t sure if it was the overwhelming pride he felt or just being around Mickey, but it was as if he was hypersensitive to everything. A shiver ran down his spine as Mickey’s fingers slid under his own white t-shirt, raking along his sides, revving up Ian’s idle engine. The low decibels of his voice, velvety smooth, wrapped around him like a warm blanket, guiding him impossibly closer to Mickey's body and all he wanted to do was kiss him, but he kind of liked hearing him talk too.

"To win for the Serpents?" Ian questioned.

Mickey hummed in thought, snaking his arms around Ian, willing taking him in. "Not exactly..."

"No?" Ian urged with a knowing smile. He just wanted to hear it, assuming he could get Mickey to say it again. "So, what were the stakes?"

"I told'ya I was gonna win...for you."

Ian was pretty satisfied with just that, but he wanted to see if he would get more out of him this time. With a grin of his own, the sixteen-year-old wrapped his arms around Mickey’s neck and leaned in, letting their noses brush against each others. The familiar scent of Marlboros lingered on Mickey’s breath and he briefly wondered how long it was since his last cigarette. “Why?”

"I think you know why," Mickey replied halfheartedly, mind partially on answering Ian's questions, but much more focused on trying to bring those lips against his. The redhead kept the chase going, pulling back little by little the closer Mickey got. 

Ian shook his head, teasing Micky a little more by letting his lips graze against the wanting male's. He couldn't prevent his grin when Mickey leaned further into him, only making Ian bend back out of reach. The tightness of Mickey's arms around him only fueled this game of his, the need emanating from the other weighing heavily on both of them. "I don't know what goes on in your head, so I can only guess. I want to know."

Amidst the sound of his nicotine-stained breath, short and ragged, there was a faint undertone of a growl that was pushing Ian over the edge and this little game of cat and mouse was starting to become more than he could handle. 

"Know what?” Asked Mickey.

"Why d'ya win the race for me?"

The brunet rolled his eyes. “We really gonna be bashing ears all night, man, or are we gonna get to it?”

Ian laughed and pulled back all the way, leaving Mickey frosted in more ways than one. He fisted Mickey's shirt once again, guiding him towards his bed, and shoved him back so that he fell on to it. Crawling onto the bed until he was straddling Mickey's lap, Ian's hands slid down the older male’s shirt and tugged it from the hem before he began unbuckling his belt painstakingly slow. “Answer the question and we don't have to play anymore games.” Ian could read the struggle in Mickey's expression as those azure eyes gazed into his. “It's not that hard, Mick.” The redhead served the other a sympathetic smile and kissed the corner of his lips, his jaw, his earlobe. Ian’s lips brushed over Mickey’s ear, his own breath dancing upon the reddening skin, and whispered, “I love you.”

Mickey instinctively leaned the other way as he felt those familiar lips on his neck, unraveling him at the seams. It was as if Ian was sucking away all his inhibitions and made it easier to just be. Though, it wasn't very hard to do with a pair of hands beneath his pants, massaging him in all the right places. 

Ian released the skin between his lips and sat up to face Mickey with a tilt of his head. Moments passed, his own words left hanging in the air, and a sense of despondency washed over Ian. He embarrassed himself again… With a sigh, he shifted to get off Mickey's lap, but then was held in place. Ian looked at Mickey curiously. 

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> But, for real though, I'm going to need Cam and Noel to actually take on a role as greasers because they were sculpted for it lol
> 
> Definitions:  
>  **square:** a regular, normal person. A conformist  
>  **fuzz:** police  
>  **bash(es):** party  
>  **snowed:** infatuated  
>  **due backs:** a pack of cigarettes  
>  **hopped up:** a car modified for speed (hot-rodders)  
>  **rod:** car (hot-rodders)  
>  **rag top:** a convertible car  
>  **Jelly Roll:** men's hair combed up and forward on both sides, brought together in  
>  the middle of the forehead.  
>  **Duck Butt:** hairstyle of greasers where hair in back is  
>  combed to the middle, then with end of comb, makes a middle  
> part  
>  **cream:** originally, to dent a car. Later, to badly damage (hot-rodders, originally)  
>  **cranked:** excited  
>  **on the hook:** in love  
>  **pad:** house/home  
>  **bash ears:** to talk  
>  **frosted:** angry


End file.
